


For Our Kingdoms, I So Swear

by LazyWriterGirl



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Ages All Over The Place, Arranged Marriage AUs, Mostly Fluff, Multi, One Shot Collection, Reflet is the male avatar's name, Robin is the female avatar's name, Tags Updated Every Chapter, There Will Be Rarepairs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-07-26 13:11:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7575238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazyWriterGirl/pseuds/LazyWriterGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you are raised to know that you will never marry for love, all that is left is to make due with the partner you are given. Though the marriage is arranged, there are moments that stick out more obviously than others, as there are in other relationships; bits and pieces of time that mark an important turning point in a shared life.</p><p>Unrelated arranged-marriage AUs wherein Robin and Reflet are royalty.</p><p>Just a note that the M/M and F/F pairings won't begin until chapter 13, if that's what you're waiting for!</p><p>Latest Update: Id ~ Knavery: Featuring F!Robin x Virion<br/>Next Update: Id ~ Languor: Featuring M!Robin x Tiki</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Id ~ Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Fire Emblem Awakening or any of its characters/settings/etc, and make no profit from this work. All errors both linguistic and otherwise are my own.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning a sandstorm and the realization that perhaps some plans are best abandoned...

 “Come, wife,” says Gangrel, the words sounding rougher than they would have if he’d spoken them in the proper noble tongue. Robin finds it difficult to follow such a command on principle, and even more difficult to follow such a command when it has been spoken in the rough dialect of the streets.

Without really meaning to, the queen of Plegia shakes her head. She is sympathetic to the lives of the poor in spite of her noble upbringing, and as open to understanding the culture of the slums as she is to understanding cultures outside her nation, but this…It must be her lack of love for her husband, and that alone, which feeds such hateful thoughts.

 

Gangrel has been king for two years now, but remnants of his past life cling to his fancy clothes and tarnish the shine of the Plegian gold on his head.

 

Robin isn’t quite sure what must have been going on in the minds of the High Council, allowing a common thief to rise to the kingship. Gangrel’s manners are worse than Gaius’s, and _Gaius_ is little more than a (lovable) nation-less thief. Robin thinks that her own adverse reactions to her husband’s coarser habits serve as reinforcement for him to continue. He enjoys aggravating her, and she does not look forward to a prolonged future of this.

Still, she _is_ pleased that Gangrel is happy to have her follow him around all day. The sly smirks and occasional (minor) invasions of her bodily privacy bother her greatly, and _Grima above,_ how she dislikes him, but he is her husband in all things and, more importantly, she has a goal in mind.

His hand closes on her wrist and pulls her forwards, and she does not question him. The Mad King, she has found, is far less mad than her father would have had her believe. That doesn’t mean that she wouldn’t kill Gangrel for the good of the people, but keeping him alive is something to be considered.

At least, Robin thinks it is.

She stares at the mark of Grima on her hand and wishes she were home, looking up only when the wish pervades her every thought. Just outside the doorway where they now stand, she sees the swirling sands and sighs quietly enough not to attract her husband’s notice. Almost as if he does not realize what is happening he takes a step forwards, turning back on her with annoyance when her step falters and he is met with resistance.

“Is the queen of Plegia frightened of a little wind and sand?”

She hates his tone.

Robin pulls her hand out of his smoothly, making as if to adjust a part of her hair. “How can I fear that which is part of me?”  
            

Gangrel studies her seriously before breaking out into peals of laughter. The noise is more akin to that of a crackling cackle than a heartfelt sound, but it seems happy enough. “Part of you? The sands are no more part of you than I am,” says Gangrel. His hand has not left her wrist but the grip, once tight, is now almost…comfortable. She is unable to respond for a moment. Gangrel is clever with his words.

Though there is no love between them he is still her husband, and he is part of her.

Just as much as the sands of her country.

“I do not know what you mean to say, my lord.” She does, of course, but the joy of hearing her say so might incite him into further excitability. Robin is unprepared for that.

His eyes are sharper than she has ever seen them when he turns to her again. “You do, _My Lady_ , else you are not the prize your beloved father claimed you were when the High Council put you forward and insisted I take you for my wife.” There is certainty in his voice. “And good Lord Validar _never_ lies, does he?”

She knows then is that Gangrel is aware of everything her father has planned, and in her heart she feels a flutter of fear. The Mad King wears a Levin sword at his hip, but she as queen is allowed no such decoration. All that she has is a knife strapped snugly to her thigh, hidden away from her body-servants and her husband alike.

“I am sorry, my lord, but I do not know what you meant to say.” 

He stares at her a moment before his laughter rends the air once more. “You ask how you can fear that which is part of you, and yet you fear me. You fear me because I am aware of your father’s treachery, and because I am armed and you are not. You fear me just as you fear the howling sands.” Gangrel pulls her forward then, into the sandstorm, and Robin is too surprised to struggle. It would not do her any good.

The Mad King walks for what feels like an eternity, and the sandstorm continues to rage. Every so often his gaze turns back to fall on her, and she does her best to show him that she is not struggling in spite of the sand. It is difficult. She is not a small woman but she is delicate for her size, always has been. Her feet, covered only by thin sandals, are beginning to burn against the scorching heat of the desert terrain.

Their journey, Robin feels, must be towards Hell itself.

 

 

***

 

 

Droplets of water hit her cheeks and Robin’s eyes burst open. The howling sands are close, so close, but there is nothing save the coolness of the water on her face.

“They never told me you were of such a delicate constitution, wife. I would have never guessed it, from your looks.” _Grima above,_ how she dislikes the snide bastard and his snarky comments.

“Where are we?” she asks, too dehydrated to make it anything more than a meek question.

Gangrel runs a wet hand through his unruly hair, and it is then that she notices how…small he looks. His cape is missing.

When she moves her own hand back to push aside a few rebel strands of her own hair she feels silken material bunched underneath her head. “Ga—my lord,” she says, forcing herself to remain polite. “Where are we?”

“Is it not obvious, _Robin_? In a cave. We will wait out the rest of the storm here.”

She sits up slowly, surprised when his hand is gentle at her back, helping to prop her up against a wall of the cave. He sits opposite her, offering her a waterskin she had not seen him carrying. It is only after the first few replenishing sips that she realizes that he has called her by her name; this is the first time he has ever done so. The first time either of them has done so, in these past three months of marriage.

Robin does not know what to say, only looks askance in his direction as she drinks from the waterskin.

“You fainted in the sand. _Quite_ ungracefully might I add, but luckily for you, only I was present to witness it.” He stretches both his arms towards the roof of the cave, just barely missing the smooth rocks above. “Gods, how my arms ache! You aren’t the lightest woman to have to carry.”

She frowns at him, noting how the ruffled black fur of his collar is thoroughly dusted with sand. “I apologize for the inconvenience, my lord.”

He peers at her down the proud column of his nose. The look is strange, though not unkind, and Robin fiddles with the mouth of the waterskin in lack of something more to say. “Pass that to me, Robin. Have you not learned to share?”

“No, my lord, I have,” she says as she hands it to him. “My apologies again, my lord.”

Gangrel drinks (sparingly, she notices) and wipes away the few flecks of water that crown his chin, grimacing all the while. His eyes feel heavy on her and she shivers in the cool of the cave. With a rough sigh Gangrel picks up his abandoned cape and shakes it out before throwing it unceremoniously over her quaking knees.

When her eyes fall on him he says, gruffly, “Imagine the talk of the court if I bring you home sick from a storm. Laughable.” She nods and thanks him, and with nothing else to say they turn to the mouth of the cave, watching the swirling patterns of sand.

Robin sneaks furtive glances at him time and again, when she is sure she will not be caught. She feels his eyes doing the same, and is confused. Gangrel is not a man for kindness. She knows this well. Even still, she does not know what it is that compels her to ask him the first question.

“Why did you want to become king?”

He studies her for a moment, stroking the intricately trimmed hairs of his beard. She waits, shivering under his gaze. With some surprise she notes the gravity in his voice when he does speak. This man is not the same Gangrel she has lived with for three aggravating months. She knows it from the first grave utterance of, “When I was a boy…”

 

 

Robin listens to what he has to say, and is surprised further by what she comes to learn.

 

 

When he finishes his eyes glint coldly, more so than she can remember them ever being. “You think me and my plans ridiculous.”

She looks him in the eyes. They are close enough that she could grab his sword, perhaps catch him unawares and entangle him in his own cape. She could kill him. She could kill him and frame one of the many Grimleal under her father’s thumb, and then she could rule the Plegians the way they must be ruled.

 

This is what she has married Gangrel for: to return a true Plegian noble to the throne.

 

She stops just short of reaching for him. Is _she_ not a true Plegian noble? She is on the throne—by marriage yes, but as a queen, and not just a mother to Gangrel’s heirs. Robin has power, she knows she has power. Her husband has made it clear that he expects her to “pull her weight” in the overseeing of their country.

Gangrel is so close now that she feels the heat of his breath close to her face.

 

 

She decides.

 

 

He is a hard man, and a difficult man to live with, but he has a vision. She has seen it, and with her help perhaps it may become more than the ravings of a mad king. Her father will come to forgive this small betrayal, but if he doesn’t, well…her brother and sister, at least, will join her.

“On the contrary, I don’t. Your methods may not be the wisest, but at the core of it I…I agree with you.”

“Oh, do you, Robin?” he asks, sidling closer to her side of the cave. “So this…agreement of yours…does that mean that you intend to turn your back on your father for me?”

“Not for you.”

“Then, for Plegia?” he asks, and the gentleness of his voice is not lost to her.

Turning towards her husband, Robin gives the Plegian king the first smile she has ever given him. “Yes, for Plegia.”

He smiles back, though the gentle expression seems strange to her still. “Do you truly wish to help me?”

 

“Yes. I want to help you…Gangrel."


	2. Id ~ Blessing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning the need to please and the determination to make a political marriage work...

The doors open; the crowd stands; and now, walking towards the altar, is Princess Emmeryn of House Ylisse. Prince Reflet of Plegia looks on her without love and without fear, but, most importantly, without hatred. He marks the briefest flash of sadness in her eyes and feels…strange.

His wife-to-be does not walk so much as glide and Reflet thinks that, much as he is not ready to be a husband, he is a fortunate man. It certainly feels that way as Emmeryn floats towards him in a traditional Ylissean wedding gown—her mother’s, he remembers her saying in her last (and only) letter to him. That was one year ago. He is glad he remembers still; it is, after all, an important detail.

 

 

Of all the things in this wedding, the dress that Emmeryn wears is the only part of the day which she has been allowed to choose for herself.

 

 

Reflet himself stands in a pair of dark breeches, gleaming black boots, and a loose, heavily embroidered tunic (once his father’s; one day his son’s should he and Emmeryn have one). His sisters are silent, but the concern in their eyes betrays their discomfort.

They wonder, he knows, why it is _he_ who stands before the altar, awaiting his Ylissean bride. Reflet wishes them not to worry: this was planned shortly after his birth. As agreed, this marriage is between the firstborn son of the Plegian king to the firstborn daughter of the Exalt of Ylisse; a fair trade in the journey towards peace. It is only right that he plays the role that has been laid out for him.

“I know you do not love my sister, but you _will_ care for her,” says a quiet voice at his side, and he does not need to turn to know that the prince of Ylisse is staring up at him with twelve years of protective righteousness in his burning blue eyes.

Reflet bends slightly and whispers, “I promise you, Prince Chrom, I will.”

The boy stiffens and stands tall in his freshly pressed clothes, eyes cast firmly on his sister’s approaching form, but Reflet knows that he has pleased the young prince. Reflet is glad that though the boy may not like him, or even trust him fully, he respects him enough not to make a scene.

Emmeryn reaches the dais, kissing her father’s offered hand before standing at Reflet’s side. He tries for a smile but falls short, nodding at her instead. The smile she sends him in return is small, a glimpse of sun behind the clouds in her eyes. The brand of the Exalted line appears to wink at him through her wedding veil.

“Dearly beloved, today we are gathered…” The words of the Ylissean priest are lost to him as he watches the small twitches in Emmeryn’s face. Though she is bored and quite clearly uncomfortable, Emmeryn is resplendent in her beauty, stunning in a way that Reflet has never known another woman to be.

She will be a good wife. That is what his mind tells him; that is what everyone tells him, his own sisters included. She is kind (he has felt her kindness), she is wise (he has heard her wisdom), and she is good (good in such a way that he doubts he could ever understand it). The goodness of her spirit amplifies the beauty of her form, and Reflet thinks again that he is a lucky man.

His gaze turns quickly to his two sisters, the only women against whom he would dare measure his soon-to-be wife. They are both strong women; so strong, in fact, that he knows that their father will not feel the loss of his kingdom’s only son. The two heirs remaining to King Validar are far and away their brother’s superiors. Reflet is so very proud of them, his dear ones.

He turns back to his wife, who, if she has noticed his wandering attention, does not mind it. Emmeryn is so very different from his sisters. Different, he knows, but strong all the same. He feels it in her hands when she takes his own. They are strong, capable hands in spite of their warmth and softness, soft as the faint smile on her lips as she looks at her brother, and then at her young sister sitting by Aversa’s side. At once, he understands.

 

The Emmeryn she is for the people is not the Emmeryn she is in the privacy of her own heart.

 

She is uncomfortable, and he has only just discovered the truth of that. _This_ is not the Emmeryn she would like to be. He feels it in the tension in her hands. Reflet gives those same strong hands a gentle squeeze, and is surprised when Emmeryn returns the gesture. The priest continues on and soon is prompting Emmeryn to give her vows.

What she says surprises him. The words from the rehearsals are gone, and for the first time Reflet knows that Emmeryn, more than anything, is speaking to him as one human being to another. Her boldness surprises him, but he is pleased to see the woman behind the mask of perfection that the Exalt has forced his daughter to assume.

“I, Princess Emmeryn of House Ylisse, take you, Prince Reflet of Plegia, to be the companion of my days, the keeper of my life, and the one with whom I share my house, willingly and in good faith. Together, we shall protect the people of our joined lands. Together, we shall usher in an era of harmony between our joined ways of life, and create a new world out of the balance. In this you are, and shall be, until death does part us, my husband.”

Reflet is stunned, and is glad that his vows will not come until the Plegian half of the ceremony. His mind races and he knows immediately that the trite vows he has been made to memorize will not serve well in light of Emmeryn’s. Had she known before the ceremony, that she would make so pretty a vow to him, so different from the words her father had approved all those many years ago?

Something about the words bothers him, however. Though he does not doubt her sincerity, he doubts if that is all she wished to say. She seems disappointed in herself, if the slight drop of her fine shoulders is any indication. His eyes briefly meet those of the Exalt, and he understands. Even the strongest of women are often trapped by the wills of their fathers.

 

 

It makes Reflet sad to think that Emmeryn might be stopping herself for the sake of the proud man seated in the first row before the altar.

           

 

The Ylissean priest blesses them by Naga and steps down. Robin, just barely fifteen years of age, steps up and takes the priest’s vacated spot. Cushions are placed before the half-wedded couple and together, he and Emmeryn kneel before the altar. Reflet watches the way his sister smiles as she begins the Plegian marriage rites, and he knows that failure to meet Emmeryn’s grand example will be punishable by a lifetime of teasing.

He is glad that Robin has already proven a talented priestess to the Grimleal, and has been chosen to marry him and Emmeryn. To kneel before their father on this day would only make him all the more nervous. From behind him he feels the man’s gaze strike him directly between his shoulders, and he squares his back out of habit.

Robin is quicker of speech than the Ylissean priest, the words rolling off of her tongue as if she were reciting poetry, faintly accented in the same lyrical tones she has employed since birth. Reflet is pleased with the way that Emmeryn closes her eyes at the music of his sister’s voice.

At least, until the Exalt coughs and Emmeryn catches herself, eyes fluttering open. Reflet sees the sadness returning.

“Do you promise, Prince Reflet, to honour and to love, above all others, this Princess Emmeryn?”

“Yes,” he says.

 

The words of his memorized vows begin to surface.

 

“Do you promise, Prince Reflet, to protect and to serve, above all others, this Princess Emmeryn?”

“Yes,” he says again, and he feels Emmeryn’s fair hands catch at his own.

 

The words are trite, they will not do.

 

“Then speak your vows, Prince Reflet, and may you be wed to this woman, Princess Emmeryn of House Ylisse,” says Robin. Her smile is kind when she looks at her soon-to-be sister-in-law, and full of mischief when she turns to him.

He breathes deeply and catches the sight of himself, panicked and no longer calm, in the reflection off Emmeryn’s eyes. She smiles at him then, and at once, Reflet is at peace. The words of a new vow take root in his mind, and he wastes another minute on a deep breath before he speaks. Emmeryn watches him with interest, some of the shield she has built lowering to meet his gaze.

He catches himself before beginning, feeling the eyes of his father and sisters, of the Exalt and his son and daughter, of the knights and cavaliers and generals and all the nobles who have gathered here today. He feels Emmeryn’s eyes on him most of all, and for the first time he smiles back at her.

“I, Prince Reflet of Plegia, choose you, Princess Emmeryn of House Ylisse, to be…none other than you are. I ask that you never hide what you feel, and in me I hope you will find support for your dreams of peace, and a husband in whom you may trust. Together we shall achieve all that you desire. To you and to your happiness, I devote my crown and my honour, my strength, and my life. In this, until death should part us, you are now and ever more my wife.”

Her hands squeeze his once, then twice, more tightly than before. The smile she beams in his direction is the most beautiful he has seen from her yet; the most beautiful smile he has ever seen in all the world, bar none.

“In light of these, the vows you have given, I pronounce the sealing of your marriage. Now rise Prince Reflet and Princess Emmeryn, and share the first kiss of a husband and wife.”

As instructed they rise; and Emmeryn’s hands slip out of his. He lifts her veil slowly, and is almost dazzled by the fullness of the smile beneath. Emmeryn is pure radiance, and she is his wife now. He wonders that one of Grima should be so fortunate as to be bound to the sun, to a true daughter of Naga.

“Well then, husband?” she says, so quietly that not even Robin seems to hear. Reflet smiles at her and leans forward slowly, pleased that she moves to meet him halfway. The kiss is chaste, and Reflet hopes that Emmeryn can feel the sincerity of his words in the touch of his lips. She parts from him first and whispers “Thank you”, and he is in awe of her once again. It is as if she has blessed him in those two words.

 

 

 

He may not understand her goodness, but Reflet knows that he does not have to understand Emmeryn to accept her for all that she is.


	3. Id ~ Coquetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning an agreed-upon arrangement and a flirtatious princess...

Seated between her father and sister, Robin finds herself directly across from the prince she will soon have to call her fiancé.

It could be worse, she thinks. In this respect, if in little else, she feels that she is luckier than her sister; _her_ husband is all ashen skin and fiery hair and while Gangrel isn’t _ugly_ , the man’s looks are not to Robin’s liking. They certainly aren’t to her sister’s liking either, if Gangrel’s lack of an heir after three years of marriage is anything to go by.

Prince Chrom of Ylisse however, well, Father could _certainly_ have chosen worse for his youngest daughter.

The prince is close to her age, only a year or two older; and rather handsome, if a little awkward and gangly and entirely unaware of how to properly hold himself. Robin decides to flash him a charming smile; perhaps it will set him at ease. His response, much to her surprise, is to blush furiously and cast a glance at his own sister, whose serene smile encourages him to react in kind.

That lopsided grin of his is quite cute.

Her father’s sly tones resound loudly in Robin’s head, and after a few seconds of listening to his discussion with the Exalt, Robin tunes them out. Their discussion has turned directly to the benefits of a marriage between her and the shy prince, and she just doesn’t care much about that at the moment. This is _her_ life they’re discussing, not the life of some minor noble being married off to continue somebody else’s line, or settle an estate dispute, or any such small, petty nonsense. While she’s far and away the best of her father’s three children in understanding the nuances of large-scale politics, it is difficult to separate herself from the situation, even if it _is_ about the future of her country.

 

 

An analysis of the benefits this alliance will undoubtedly bring to her people is difficult to properly run when her own future is the wagering chip.

 

 

“ _Do_ try to look upon the poor boy with some kindness,” says Robin’s elder sister in a hushed whisper, and Robin does so dutifully. With mild amusement she notes how the deep pink of the prince’s blush has spread to his ears. He appears thankful that neither of the two kings is paying much attention to their children seated nearby. Frankly, _she_ is just thankful that her brother is not also present, already being betrothed to the princess of Chon’sin and thus spending his summer there.

 

The teasing between both Reflet and Aversa would potentially have killed her poor husband-to-be.

 

“What is this now, Chrom? Why don’t you show your fiancée the castle grounds?” The Exalt’s powerful baritone voice jolts the young prince into action, though the boy starts a little at the word “fiancée”.

“O-of course, Father,” he stammers out. His eyes are wide, much like a game animal standing trapped amongst hunters, and Robin would feel badly for him if it weren’t so damned funny. And if he wasn’t so _cute_ , all flustered like that.

“Aversa, perhaps we should let them get to know each other without chaperones?” Princess Emmeryn smiles sweetly, and Robin almost chokes on her tea with laughter at the increasing intensity of the prince’s blush. He also seems surprised at their sisters’ closeness, marked by the usually prim Emmeryn’s distinctive non-use of Aversa’s title, but her future husband’s obliviousness is not to Robin’s concern. It’s truly refreshing, to see a prince so…charmingly unaware.

“S-sister! Is that even allowed?”

Robin almost wishes the boy hadn’t spoken; Aversa leaps at the opportunity to tease further after the words have left his mouth. “Oh, Emmeryn, I don’t know now…what wouldn’t be allowed, Prince Chrom?” The lilt in Aversa’s voice is suggestive, and though Robin is used to it, Prince Chrom is clearly not prepared for the sultry tone behind his future sister-in-law’s words. Emmeryn merely stifles a laugh behind one perfect hand.

“I—I didn’t mean a-anything like _that_ , Princess Aversa! I beg your pardon!”

Robin giggles a little at how flushed the boy is now, and the small part of her that is kinder than she lets on moves to save him from the embarrassment that he is bringing himself. “Sister, let Prince Chrom alone, please…how about we all go for a walk outside? It’s so stuffy, just waiting here in this tent.”

 “What a wonderful suggestion, Robin,” says Emmeryn with her ever-present smile, and the golden-haired woman leads their small party out into the open air.

Robin thinks that the freshness of their new surroundings must have contributed to the lightening of the blush on Chrom’s face, ears, and neck. She moves to take her sister’s arm, only to find that Aversa and Princess Emmeryn have already moved on ahead, their longer legs allowing them to abandon their younger siblings with an easy gait. They’ve already made it over to where an armoured man is standing before Aversa turns and winks at her little sister.

Robin allows a little sigh to escape her lips before turning all of her attention on Prince Chrom. He’s barely taller than she is, but the length of his limbs suggests that he’ll overtake her in height sooner rather than later. She likes the blue of his eyes and hair, and she thinks that when he matures in a few years, he’ll be very handsome indeed. The thought makes it slightly easier to digest the knowledge that she is expected to marry this boy and bear him children one day.

She looks at him expectantly.

“Y-yes?” he stutters out. Robin doesn’t think that she’s ever met a less self-confident prince.

And she’s met _several_ princes.

“Will you offer me your arm, or am I to walk unescorted?” Realistically it doesn’t matter to her either way, but they’re in Ylisse for the negotiations and she’s been warned over and _over_ again that it would be _imperative_ to the success of said negotiations that she follow Ylissean social protocol.

It isn’t as if she _wants_ to have to face her father if this entire thing falls through due to some seemingly innocuous error on her part, so Robin waits beside the boy she’s going to marry in four or five years and does nothing but put on a coy little smile that Aversa had taught her years ago.

“O-of course!” His arm is immediately thrust before her, the movement so sharp that Robin backs away quickly, on instinct. It is not until the boy’s stuttering apologies and fiery blushing increase almost a hundredfold that she takes pity, and his arm, and assures him that everything is fine.

The walkways are nothing spectacular, though the fact that they are simply walking around the castle perimeter as opposed to the garden proper probably explains why that is. Robin smiles to herself as her eyes trace her sister’s and Princess Emmeryn’s retreating forms. Every so often one of the older princesses turns around to check in on the young couple, and each time they seem to be saying something different.

Prince Chrom walks almost stiffly, as if trying to imitate something he had learned: perhaps the “proper” way to lead a lady? For her part Robin allows herself to be led, meeting his every hesitant gaze with a batting of her eyelashes or a small smile. She wants him to speak first, to see what kind of conversation the boy can come up with in such a strange situation, but eventually the silence begins to irk her.

It is one thing to play the quiet, yet still somehow coquettish princess to a blustering, blathering, boastful prince, but it is another thing entirely to play the same part and be met with nothing but youthful embarrassment.

“What do you like to do in your spare time, Prince Chrom?” He seems surprised to hear her question him about himself, but Robin allows the flustered prince a moment’s recovery before she offers him an example of how to respond. “I enjoy reading and learning magic with my friends; we practice in the palace courtyard. Oh, and of course I am also fond of spending time with my brother and sister,” she says, waving a hand demurely as said sister turns back to cast a silently laughing eye on the young couple. “Not that we do much of that now, seeing as Sister has been married for three years and Brother is soon to be married to his betrothed.”

“Ah,” Prince Chrom says, and Robin wonders if the boy is broken or something, because he doesn’t seem to be able to string together more than a few syllables at a time. “Y-your brother, f-forgive me if I’m wrong but, h-he is to marry the princess of Chon’sin, yes?”

Robin eyes her husband-to-be with something that he would surely take for simple curiosity, but which an experienced member of Plegian court would know to be intense scrutiny. Her brother’s engagement to Princess Say’ri is not widely known, as per the agreement reached between her father and the emperor of Chon’sin. For Prince Chrom to know about it would suggest his involvement with high-level intelligence operatives skilled enough to—

His voice silences her train of thought as he adds, “Emm—er…my sister told me that Princess Say’ri and her betrothed get along famously in spite of the tensions between Chon’sin and h-her betrothed’s home c-country, so I just uh, I just thought it must have been…” Underneath hers, his arm tenses up and she can tell that he is afraid that he has erred. Perhaps she was not the only one to receive a ship’s worth of instructions prior to this meeting. Poor boy.

“No, you’re right,” she says, relaxing slightly, pleased when he imitates her actions. “I should have guessed that Princess Say’ri would keep Princess Emmeryn as a confidante.” She hums in satisfaction at the thought—it is good that the princess of Chon’sin shares a friend with Aversa, at any rate. It should give them all some common ground during dinner discussions in the future. “Your sister is a saintly woman, Prince Chrom; a true paragon of all that is good in this world. You must be proud of her,” Robin says, before Aversa turns to her and mouths something in their mother tongue.

She does her best to nod as surreptitiously as possible, though she doubts that Prince Chrom would notice even if she made the most exaggerated of motions.  Chrom mumbles something about how proud he is of his sister, and how much he loves her and their other sister, the child-princess Lissa. It’s heartwarming, in a sense. As much as Robin knows her brother loves her and Aversa, she cannot picture Reflet speaking in such a way.

 

Chrom’s warmth is so genuine, so truly loving.

 

She can’t help it then, the sudden feeling of closeness to this boy beside her and, using the same movements Aversa had shown her prior to their travels to Ylisse, Robin presses herself as close as she can to the Ylissean prince who, when he notices the warmth of her on his skin…

 

 

Jumps back from her as if shocked. “P-princess?!”

 

 

“Shh,” she says, winking conspiratorially as she nods towards their sisters. “Don’t spoil the fun now, won’t you, _Chrom_?”

“F-fun?! What fun?!”

Robin only laughs her twinkling laugh, pleased when he joins her after a moment’s hesitation. That her new fiancé is not accustomed to simple tricks of coquetry is surprising, but not wholly unpleasant to learn.

 

 

 

She imagines that there will be plenty of time to teach him in their future together.


	4. Id ~ Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning the internal worries of a young husband and wife...

“I don’t understand why you don’t want to go tonight,” Reflet calls through the door.

“Leave me alone…please.” The words fall flat upon his ears, and Reflet is immediately worried. This is not the bright, bubbly woman he married.

 

In spite of the concern building in his chest, Reflet resists the urge to summon a maid for the keys; this is a problem between himself and his wife, and it is his duty as a husband to fix it

 

From the other side of the door he can hear her ruffling about in her layers upon layers of dress, and Reflet wonders—not for the first time—why his wife refuses to wear something more conforming to the heat of the Plegian desert. Not that he would ever mention that, of course. Why should he interfere with her choice of attire? It probably reminds her of the more temperate climate of her mother country, and he wouldn’t want to take that from her. He doubts he would ever try.

He wouldn’t take it from her even though the Plegian court is sure to have noticed (and commented on) how slow she is to assimilate into their world. Reflet heaves a sigh as quietly as he can, palm pressed flat against the wood of the door. The Plegian court is not particularly pleasant even for him, and he is supposed to be king of them all. How Lissa must feel…

He shrugs back his guilt at the behaviour of his people as he prepares, not for the first time, to coax his wife from her self-banishment to their quarters. Their opinion matters little anyway. As queen, Lissa may dress however she likes, and she will always have his support, even if he’s never said as much to her.

“I don’t want to go! Why do you need a reason?”

“Because the only thing you’ve said is that you don’t want to go! Is that what I tell the nobles, then?”

Lissa is silent for a moment, perhaps contemplating some sort of pithy response.

Reflet tenses immediately. The prince of Ylisse had warned him about Lissa’s sometimes argumentative nature. This is a game he is familiar with, one he has had to play with his younger sister on many an occasion, but Robin is a different woman entirely.

Reflet offers a moment’s thought for his younger sister; he imagines that she has probably given the khan of Regna Ferox a similar headache on many an official occasion.

Smiling fondly at the door behind which his wife is concealed, however, he is also equally certain that the khan does not mind. Just as he doesn’t.

“Why should I spend the whole evening in a room full of people who don’t like me?”

The question is put to him gently, sincerely, and Reflet frowns. “How could you possibly think that?”

He wonders if he hasn’t been taking the entire situation seriously; shamefully he admits—for now just to himself, though he will surely need to apologize to Lissa—that he is not watching as carefully as he should be. There has always been a possibility of threats being made, Reflet knows, because Lissa is Ylissean by blood and breeding, and the history between their two peoples has never been friendly. Not in the slightest. In fact, their union had been born of a desire to correct that enmity.

 

Their entire relationship had begun due to politics, and it is why Reflet still doubts that theirs is truly a relationship at all.

 

It started when Reflet was naught but a boy, and Lissa was barely out of swaddling clothes. Though _she_ was already married to the high prince of Chon’sin at the time, Aversa had been the force behind her younger brother’s betrothal, using her friendship with the Exalt to seal their nations’ fates together. He holds no bitterness towards his sister; she has always done what she believed to be the best both for him and for Plegia. Not only that; but Reflet and Lissa had been given the option to back out of their engagement one year before the marriage was set to occur, and then again on the day before.

 

In the end, he likes to think that they chose each other.

 

Still, Reflet knows that many of the women of the Plegian court, and by extension their fathers and brothers, felt slighted upon hearing of the wedding. None of the late King Validar’s heirs have married from within their own court, and whispers of a true Plegian usurping his place are more common than Reflet wants to admit. Whispers of plans to “replace” his queen are even more problematic, though he would sooner die than see harm come to Lissa.

He realizes that she has not spoken since his thoughts began to take hold and so he says, as softly as he can, “Lissa? Has anyone threatened you?”

The response is both forceful and immediate. “No! I just _don’t want to go,_ Reflet!”

“Will you at least let me come in?” He will not admit it to anybody, but he is terrified of things like this. Of Lissa shutting herself off from him. Of his wife feeling as if she cannot confide in him.

That is why he cannot hold back a sigh of relief when he hears her sniff back what he presumes are tears in order to say, “Okay.”

He steels himself before entering, afraid of what he might find. Both his younger and older sisters were notorious for their tantrums back in the day. They’d been able to tear apart entire staterooms in _minutes_ , and had thought little of the clean-up required afterward (at least, Aversa had never cared. Robin had mellowed out and learned to pick up after herself as she grew up). Reflet does a quick calculation in his head: Lissa locked herself in shortly after the noon meal, at least a few _hours_ ago, and so surely he’ll need to c—Reflet stops his mind from whirring too fast as his eyes are met with the most puzzling scene to which he has ever borne witness.

Lissa is perched on the edge of her bed—he has yet to ask if she would mind sharing one—though her eyes remain firmly glued to the floor. Their quarters, contrary to his expectations, are spotless, as pristine as they had been earlier that morning. Nothing is amiss. Not a single thing is out of place except for a few of the precious sun-pale hairs atop his wife’s head. The shock of walking into a previously locked room only to find it spotless forces him to the floor, where he sits in awe of the fact that there is nothing on the ground with him that should not have been there in the first place.

Upon hearing the sound of his rump hitting the carpet, Lissa looks up slightly, puzzled, and it is only then that Reflet notices the true damage of Lissa’s self-exiling antics. His wife’s pale blue eyes are rimmed with the unmistakeable redness of tears. Her lips do not bear their usual smile—not that he had expected them to—and there is a grim sadness in the set of her mouth that displeases him—no, upsets him outright.

“Lissa…”

She tries to smile, but comes up with nothing, and he feels badly. They’ve been married for just shy of half a year still she isn’t comfortable. She’s left her homeland and all her friends behind to be his queen and he couldn’t be happier to have her by his side…but she’s miserable. How has he not noticed? Is he doing all he can to make her happy?

Clearly not.

“Lissa, please, tell me what’s wrong. I want you to be happy here but I can’t help you if I—

“I _am_ happy here, Reflet,” Lissa says. The sincerity in her words surprises him, because in all honesty his wife looks precisely the _opposite_ of a happy woman. “I don’t want to go tonight because I…” she trails off. “Never mind.”

Reflet doesn’t know why he doesn’t just sit beside her—would she let him?—and instead he ends up half-crawling, half-scooting over to where she is so that she cannot avoid his eyes. “You can talk to me. I want you to know that you can rely on me. You can trust me.” _I’m your husband_ , he wants to tell her. _I want you to rely on me, to trust me, because I…_ he doubts that he’d be able to say it now. Now is not the right time.

Though her voice is a whisper, her words are clear, easier to make out than he’d expected. “I trust you, t’s just…how do you deal with it all? The looks? The whispers? Isn’t it hard for you?” Lissa’s promptness surprises him; this must all be bothering her more than he thinks. “I mean, I suppose it’s easy for _you_ but…”

Is she afraid of the petty souls that flit towards the Plegian court with arrogance and scorn on their lips? It is difficult to think that Lissa, a woman of such light and mirth, could possibly be afraid of anything, but if he’s been reading the situation correctly than he would have to admit that such is the case. “I am no braver than you, Lissa…less so, if I’m being honest. You were the one who came here, to a place where you knew people would judge you. Your bravery is amazing.” He reaches for her hand, stopping just short of entwining her thin fingers in his own. He doesn’t know if she’d let him.

“I’m not my brother. I’m not Emm. When they were my age, they were already so amazing…and I’m nothing like that.”

“Frankly, I’m glad of that. You’re unique. And you don’t need to be either Chrom or Emmeryn to be brave. You do that all on your own.” He tries his best to keep his tone light, but Reflet is scared to upset the delicate balance. Lissa is much more open now than she had been with a door between them, but he knows that this is but a fraction of the communication they were just beginning to build.

“I’m only going to embarrass you,” Lissa says, and Reflet watches her begin to fold in on herself again. He doesn’t want to let that happen. He can’t let that happen, not as Lissa’s friend and certainly not as her husband. “You wouldn’t understand.” He watches her floundering, gasping for some sort of reprieve from the loneliness, from the incertitude against which she has been battling for he does not know how long.

 

Her hand fits into his almost too perfectly, but it’s the look in her eyes that he cares about more at the moment.

 

“Then help me to understand.”

She appears to consider it, and for a moment he is afraid that she will tell him she doesn’t want his help. Doubtful that she can see how much he cares for her. Lissa takes a breath, and Reflet braces himself for a rejection. “Even though I’ve come of age, and even though I have a husband now,” and here she smiles weakly at him and he feels his heart melt, “I…I’m not much of a queen.”

 

And suddenly Reflet understands, and he is reminded that they are both young, so young in the eyes of the world. He does not know what she sees in his eyes as the realization dawns, but suddenly Lissa squeezes his hand as she speaks, and he smiles up at her. They may be new to their roles as king and queen, but together they will learn.

 

Of that, he has no doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly not super happy about this one but I couldn't stare at it blankly anymore.
> 
> Just a side note, in case I forgot to mention it earlier (which I almost certainly did): the ages in these fics are not the same chapter by chapter, and unless specified, Robin and Reflet aren't twins. This is more to keep in mind for the next few chapters buuuut now is a fair enough time to mention it, I figure.
> 
> Anyway, if you want to chat about this or any of my other work (or just anything in general, really) feel free to drop me a line or two [ on Tumblr ](https://lazywritergirl.tumblr.com). I also sometimes draw, rant, or post poor-quality pictures of things I buy on a whim...let that entice you as it may.


	5. Id ~ Eloquence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning fear of rambling, nonsensical conversational habits and hope for the future born out of an agreement between a princess and an unexpectedly adaptable Scion of Legend…

After the assassination of Exalt Emmeryn by a Valmese spy, Ylisse turned to Prince Chrom for leadership. Taking up his sister’s mantle with only slight hesitation, he married at the age of nineteen, fairly standard, and produced an heir with his chosen queen only a year later. When he turned twenty-two, Exalt Chrom and his wife welcomed another child into the world, a second princess. In that same year Princess Lissa, the Exalt’s surviving sister, was married to the man of her choice. She was eighteen at the time.

 

The next year the princess bore her first and only son, and it was said that she did not wish to risk having any more children, for fear of what could happen should the Valmese army appear on the continent.

 

At the time, Robin herself had been fifteen, more than old enough to remember the long spent in discussion with her sister, Queen Aversa. While she knew then that the threat of Valmese invasion had always loomed heavily in the distance, it still struck Robin as strange that her sister was so tense— _is_ still tense.

After all, their brother Reflet had married into the royal house of Rosanne shortly after Exalt Emmeryn’s untimely death, and Robin didn’t doubt that her brother’s cowardly husband would have fled his continent at the first sign of trouble. The fact that Reflet and Duke Virion remained to govern Rosanne suggested that the situation in Valm could not possibly have been anywhere near worrying. Even now, nearly two decades later, the situation wasn’t bad enough to warrant concern.

Regardless, something seemed to have spurred Aversa into action all those years ago. If Robin had understood then what Aversa meant to do, she may not have been wearing a band of Ylissean gold on her ring finger right now.

 

They’ve just announced their engagement. The Ylisseans seem to be gluttons for good news, and the betrothal of a member of their royal line is typically a cause for celebration. The public announcement was easy enough in Ylisse, but Robin had expected that. An Exalted wedding is apparently _always_ a boost to morale, even if the other party is the last heir of King Validar. It probably helps, of course, that there’s virtually no chance in hell of her husband-to-be ever sitting upon the throne as Ylisse’s Exalt, and by extension, no chance of a Plegian sitting at the Exalt’s side.

 

That isn’t what she's worried about, at any rate, and she attempts to focus her thoughts and calm her breathing as the horses begin to tread over sandier ground. What concerns Robin now, more than anything, is the possibility that her betrothed will behave the same way he had in his homeland. She can’t blame him for it, but it is a concern that she finds herself turning over and over in her head as their convoy moves towards Castle Plegia.

Robin chances a glance at the young man across from her; he’d fallen asleep about halfway through the voyage. She can’t blame him for that, either. The heat is not something he’s accustomed to, and she wonders if he will be happy living in Plegia for half the year. Such had been part of the terms agreed upon by his uncle and her sister.

 

Turning her eyes back to the expanses of sand that begin to swell out in all directions, she stifles a sigh.

 

Robin had never really wanted to marry. She’d lived her thirty-three years without ever wishing to walk down the aisle as a bride, and yet it seemed that the gods had decided to encroach upon her comfortable lifestyle in order to deliver her a husband. Granted, it was as political a match as any of the others in her family had been, but still.

It was strange.

For starters, while it wasn’t completely unheard of, it was _decidedly_ more uncommon for women to be the older partners in a relationship between a male and female; typically it was men who had the advantage of years, regardless of one’s class. To therefore hear that the prince of Ylisse would be marrying an older, technically _higher-ranking_ woman should have been somewhat off-putting in people’s minds. And yet nobody complained.

 

Robin stares down at the ring on her finger. It glows similarly to the ring on her betrothed’s hand, which he has somehow managed to fling haphazardly over his face like a child would. Her husband-to-be is just barely eighteen, and she has lived three years short of twice that time. It’s almost enough to make her feel ill; there are mothers who have only that many years over their sons.

 

Robin sighs again, audibly this time, and almost bites down a little too much on her lip when the sound wakes her betrothed.

 

 “Ah, Robin! My lady fair! Have we yet to alight upon the capitol of your heart’s motherland, a place once eldritch in mine eyes, now awash in the light of your grace?”

“Not yet, Pri—Owain. Not yet. We have another hour’s travels at least, and that is assuming the horses do not tire too much.”

“Is that so? Well, ‘tis not at all a shame to have awakened so prematurely, as now I have the attentions of beauty manifested in the flesh; she for whom even the poets would weep…after weeping for my own legendary self, of course.”

Robin tries to resist the urge to stare at him but honestly, she’s intrigued. He’d spoken the same way at their engagement announcement; stringing together sentence after sentence without pause; and throwing in all sorts of endearments with which she wasn’t—isn’t—entirely comfortable (though she can’t say she _hates_ to hear them, either).

The young man runs his ringed hand through the blonde spikes of his hair, blue eyes never quite leaving her face. “Your fair countenance does shine so prettily in the carriage light, you who are betrothed to the hero of legend, and—

“Owain, please,” she says, “You needn’t say such things. We are betrothed, yes, but surely you must know that this is all…not more than clever politics.” She does not try to look away from him.

 

For some reason, she can’t.

 

He is silent for a moment, surprisingly, the hand that bears the ring now stroking his smooth chin in deliberate thought. After a beat he starts up again, his words more sincere even in spite of the theatrical tone behind them. She thinks that she spots a hint of pink dusting his high cheekbones, but she cannot be sure. "While the origins of our betrothal may in quiet politicking lie, I believe it is only the duty of a scion of legend to uphold all vows sincerely; and how can I not feel the stirrings of love when you are so near?” He coughs, and she is surprised to see that an even fiercer blush has arisen upon his cheeks. “Your beauty is the thing from which the legends are spun, rivalled only by your golden heart.”

Robin is taken slightly aback; he is sincere and she can tell that he means each word, can see it on his face. Such openness, such candour…she is quite unprepared to handle it. The thought startles her.

“I am nearly your mother’s age,” she says quietly, “and you do not know me well enough to make such claims.”

He is bold. That much she must grant him as he takes her hand, catching at her fingers just underneath the ring that feels less and less like a shackle with every second that passes. “You are not my mother, regardless of your age. That aside, we have already spent some time together…and we shall come to know each other more deeply in the years to come.”

Robin’s jaw slackens, though her royal upbringing refuses to allow it to drop to her chin like a commoner’s would.

 “You…know how speak normally?”

He looks confused, blue eyes wide as he takes in the shock on her face, and then he laughs. It is small and short, but admittedly rather endearing; the kind of laugh that is mostly at one’s self, but good-naturedly and without any trace of self-hatred. “Why yes, I do.” She decides that he sounds the same, even perhaps a little older when he isn’t all theatrical and trying to sound larger-than-life.

“Why do you speak the way you do then, if you’re not compelled to do so?”

“Alas, ‘tis just my lot in life to be the hero of the epoch; a true spectacle of man, for I cannot quell the rages of my impassioned blood; and thus my tongue is but too oft’ twisted into forming a most splendiferous bouquet of words!” He does not take a single pause as he speaks, and yet his expression is at once so serious—and yet so charmingly carefree—that she does not know how to respond.

She doesn’t even know for sure if she’s understood a single thing he’s just said.

Not that it matters, because now her future husband is all quiet and shy and clearly embarrassed and it’s rather cute. She feels slightly predatory thinking such a thing—he’s barely more than a boy playing at manhood—and yet…

“Does…does it bother you when I speak that way?” he asks, and he drops her hand gently, self-conscious.

She regards the man she is expected to marry with a critical eye. There’s nothing _wrong_ with him at all (far from it), and really the theatrical speech is— _Amusing. Charming. Endearing._ —barely an issue but…if Owain speaks like that in public it’s bound to cause some sort of a stir in Plegia.

Her own father had raised her and her siblings to be taciturn with the populace; never outwardly unfriendly, but certainly reserved. Owain, however, is clearly a favourite of the nation. He had referred to his people as “you the glorious common-folk, you whom it is my most noble duty to serve”, and the Ylisseans clearly loved him for it, but in Plegia…

 

They would eat her husband-to-be alive, and offer no explanation.

 

So no, it isn’t that she’s bothered as much as _concerned._ “Truth be told, I rather like your particular brand of eloquence.” She tries to pointedly ignore his blush but fails. “I just worry for how my people will react. They aren’t like yours, you know. They won’t take kindly to the announcement of our betrothal, but…your uniqueness won’t help.”

“I can speak in a proper, formal manner if you wish it,” he says.

He can. Robin believes him.

She doesn’t know why she takes his hand, but she takes it the way he had taken hers only minutes before, and she smiles as best as she can at him. “I wouldn’t want to ask you to hide away that part of who you are for long, but…perhaps only in public. Only for now.”

He smiles back and nods, acquiescing to a request that she hadn’t even truly made on her own, and she can’t help but grow fonder of him in that short space of time. “Very well, my lady,” he says, and then, before she can say anything more, his face takes on a roguish (charming) cast and he brings her hand to his lips—and a blush to her cheeks—before adding, “I shall save my gift of words for the wooing of my resplendent future wife; the woman who shall one day be sung of as the only keeper of the Scion of Legend’s heart.”

 

 

 

Later she will blame the pink of her cheeks on the heat and he will tell her, in his special, eloquent way, that she looks beautiful like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, writing Owain makes me feel like I am just pulling words out of my ass and hoping they form a semi-coherent sentence...but I love him so it's all fine.
> 
> As always, feel free to say hi [ over on Tumblr ](https://lazywritergirl.tumblr.com). I love interacting with readers! Let me know if you're from AO3, so I can be extra nice to you!


	6. Id ~ Festivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning a slightly jealous, worrywart husband and the baby steps towards a real relationship...

They’ve come just in time for the start of the Summer’s Greetings Festival, and Reflet would be lying if he said he was not planning to take a more active role in the celebrations now that they’d successfully negotiated a few new trade deals with Rosanne.

He turns to his wife, hoping to point out the decorations which line the streets even though he knows that she is most likely already looking at them—without seeing, maybe, but looking at them all the same. Reflet smiles when his gaze lands on the woman across from him. That he is with Lucina is another positive aspect of an already wonderful setup. His wife, for all her seriousness and her strict adherence to decorum when away from Ylisstol, is decent company. Better than decent, truly; though Reflet must admit that it is difficult to surmount her predisposition to quiet and solitude (a solitude which appears to have spread to her family, to the exclusion of all save for her dearly beloved, departed father).

It is not a personality with which he is accustomed to dealing, as both his older and younger sisters are of a more naturally mischievous bent. Lucina’s stoicism is different, something he has never before encountered in a woman so young, and yet he finds that it does not bother him at all. Besides, she is stoic, yes, but never mute around him. Her jaw tenses in the way it always does before she begins to speak, and his eyes snap over to her face.

“Father would have been pleased with the new outline for negotiations with Rosanne, don’t you think?”

He does not wonder at the slight sting he feels; Lucina’s favourite person in the world remains her father even a year after the man’s passing, and half a year of marriage. It is childish to think that he is jealous of his late friend’s place in said late friend’s daughter’s eyes, but it is a thought he has had to come face-to-face with on more than one occasion. He imagines that he will have to continue to face such thoughts for quite some time, if he is being honest. Outside their carriage, the wind dances with the trees, as if agreeing with him that the road to his wife’s affections will be paved with the constant need to compete with her departed father’s brilliance.

Though Chrom will forever (in memory) remain his dearest friend, Reflet lets loose a grunt of malcontent at the thought.

Not knowing the focus of his musings, Lucina takes the sound for one of disapproval. “Reflet? You don’t agree?” There is an edge to her voice—he recognizes it as Lucina’s way of preparing for a stern exchange of words—and Reflet is immediately guilty. He does not like to think that he could cause his wife to feel the need to guard herself thusly.

“My apologies, I was distracted by the decorations,” he says. “I agree with you, though. Chrom would have been very happy with our work.” He turns to face his wife once more and waits for her to continue to speak. The only sounds that greet him are those of wooden wheels rolling, of Rosanneans calling out to each other in their lilting, twisting tongue, and of the rhythmic collision of hooves against the cobbled streets. Not wanting to waste the opportunity to (potentially) catch his wife in a bout of talkativeness, he says, “You did wonderfully, Lucina.”

She smiles at him—but barely—before turning her head to watch the swaying of the leaves in the Rosannean breeze. Reflet is about to cut his losses, to turn his head too to the outside world, when his wife surprises him. She speaks again, and she is looking at him as the words leave her lips. “Duke Virion was rather easy to speak with…if perhaps a touch difficult to understand at points.”

He thinks that he might have seen the corners of her eyes crinkle in amusement, but he is not certain.

“Yes, he tends to be that way no matter the occasion,” Reflet replies. “Thankfully, Cherche keeps her eye on trade agreements as well, and was able to remind him to stay on-task. Underneath the foppish exterior, the man is truly fit to rule his people. Of course, how much of that is through Cherche’s assistance is a point of contention amongst his detractors.”

“Cherche…you refer to the lady knight in attendance?” Lucina says, and her voice is just as professional as it had been in the hall of Castle Virion.

He nods. “Yes. She is Virion’s right hand, and one of the very best in his service.”

Lucina watches him a moment, lips pursed, before saying, “She rather reminds me of Sir Frederick, in some aspects.”

Reflet thinks that he can see it; in fact, he’s almost certain he can, but he wants to hear Lucina speak a little more. They have yet to discuss anything personal aside from their feelings surrounding Chrom’s untimely death, and even this is not personal, truly, but it is _more_. He admits that he is frustrated, even if only to himself, but he knows that this is just how Lucina is. Unwilling to open up to him enough to maybe, perhaps fall in love with him, for whatever reasons she might have. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes,” she says, her words forming at the edges of her mouth in a tiny smile. “Always hovering over Duke Virion, guiding him. Watching over him. Much the way that Sir Frederick watches over my brother and me.” _The way he watched over my father_.

 

She does not speak that last bit, but he reads it in her eyes all the same, and all that Reflet can do is nod.

 

Lucina falls silent after that, her eyes focused on something past him, through him, and he takes a moment to look at her. Just to look. His wife is two decades of age to his four and thirty years, but there is a maturity to her that, to this day, he seems to lack. A serious look in her eyes. Wisdom in the blue and branded gaze that does not see him though he is only so few feet from it.

Inwardly, Reflet curses himself for not having foreseen this turn in the conversation. He knows that Lucina has been working through her father’s death slowly, and that trips like this can help her to take her mind off the fact that she is now the Exalt of a halidom that had loved the man to come before her. He knows how close Chrom and his eldest child were, knows that the bond with one’s parent is one of the most difficult to lose, but it has been one entire year and then some more months, and Lucina has deprived herself of even small joys ever since out of mourning.

It cannot be healthy—Reflet is almost absolutely certain that it isn’t—but there is so little that he can do; there is so little that Lucina seems willing to allow him to do. He shakes his head before defeat can take root; as her husband, it is duty to _try_. “Lucina?” He wants her to enjoy herself, even if only for a short time.

She is slow to respond to him, but when she does he can tell that she actually _sees_ him, and so, of all the things he could possibly say, he says, “Would you like to explore the festival grounds?”

“Festival grounds?”

“Yes,” he says, waving a hand at the stalls that have taken up much of the walkways as their carriage halts at the end of the street—it would be a shame for Lucina not to at least _see_ some of it before sequestering herself in their guest room for the remainder of the trip. “It’s a festival to celebrate the coming of summer, amongst other things.”

“I am not sure...”

Reflet does not know what has possessed him, but he continues to press, gently, “I’ve never been able to experience one of these; it would be something that we could do…together?”

Lucina eyes him a moment, and he is not certain but he thinks that the smile on her lips is much different from any that she has given him before. It seems amused, almost, and it does not die away even when she asks him, voice even, neutral, “I would have thought you’d have experienced this festival with Princess Robin, at some point?”

He shakes his head. “Unfortunately not, though I _have_ , in passing, taken part in the joys of one of the winter festivals. My sister is more suited to the colder clime of Rosanne than I, sadly, and so I remember little other than enjoying a few sticks of hardened syrup-candy before passing out at my sister’s feet in the snow.”

Lucina’s eyes widen a little at that. Reflet is immediately worried—he has only rarely shared stories about his personal life and experiences, as Lucina had made it clear that their marriage, on her end, was more a political agreement than anything else. He hopes he has not overstepped the invisible boundaries that seem to have sprung up between them in the last six months.

Instead of being greeted by a stony silence, he is greeted by the gentle shake of Lucina’s shoulders as she… _laughs_.

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her laugh.

“I imagine you must have looked rather funny,” she says. “It almost makes me wish we were here during the winter.”

“Hoping for the chance to see me passed out in the snow?”

She stops laughing, and Reflet remembers that his wife is not the most receptive to intentional humour. A trait she might have picked up from her mother, perhaps. He’s about to take back his words, to tell her that he hadn’t meant it in that way, when Lucina speaks again, voice difficult to make out against the background noise. “I wouldn’t want to see you that way. Not ever.”

Oh. Reflet will admit that he is surprised to hear such an admission from his wife. For some reason, the thought that she might care for him more than he’d believed is…emboldening. “I happen to know a good way to prevent that from coming to pass, then.”

She looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “And that would be…?”

“Come with me. Let’s go see what this festival is all about. The weather is nice, the people are friendly…and I think that it would be a good idea for us to join in the festivity. Together.” Reflet steps out of the carriage, holding the door ajar with one hand and holding the other out to his wife.

He prepares himself for a rejection.

What he gets instead is Lucina’s hand in his. What he gets in addition to that is a smile as Lucina steps out into the street; she does not release his hand even when he has closed the door of the carriage and told the driver to meet them again in a few hours time.

 

Reflet knows that this festival will not solve all of their problems, will not bring down all the barriers that they have erected between them, but it is a start and for now, watching Lucina begin, slowly, to enjoy the world in a way she has forced herself not to during the past year, it is enough.

 


	7. Id ~ Gentility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning a dreamer's new reality, and the possible silence of love...

She kneels at rest upon a cushion, one hand on her swollen stomach, and wonders if an artisan would paint her likeness now.

 

Perhaps it would be titled something like this: Woman in Love; Pining.

 

She laughs to herself, quietly.

Her son plays in the courtyard, chasing after cherry blossoms floating on the breeze. When he turns to wave at her, she smiles. Her boy is five years old and the pride of her life. She had borne him at two-and-twenty, and he remains as perfect now as he was then.

She realizes, as she watches her son’s pale hair shining in the slowly-reddening sunlight, that she is now as old as her husband had been when they were married. Before they’d began on a journey of life together, before they’d become friends; before they’d been blessed with their son.

Despite herself, she wonders if, after all this time, he has ever been able to love her. She has loved him for so long without seeing any such love returned, and though hers is not a sad life, it is lonelier than she thinks it rightly should be. Her husband is a good man, though, a kind man. A genteel man.

 

She wonders if that is enough for her.

 

The day is warm, but pleasantly so, and Robin allows herself to recollect, to take a dip into the pool of her memories on this lazy afternoon.

 

***

 

She first meets him when she is little more than a girl of ten.

 

The difference in their ages—only seven years—seems more severe than it should be.

_She_ looks the part of an ageless little sprite, with her hair done in plaits by her sister’s hand and her body clothed in a simple white shift. Her eyes are bright, her smile is wide, and when she laughs she brings cheer to the gloom that seems to hang over the palace. Her name is Robin, and she is the youngest of the Plegian royal family.

 _He_ , on the other hand, looks every bit the part of a stern foreign prince, but she cannot find it within herself to be afraid of him. His eyes are dark, his hair silver-white, and he speaks with a deep, sombre voice. His name is Yen’fay, future emperor of Chon’sin.

 

They are to be married in a decade’s time.

 

As it is right now, she knows only that this is a good thing for her country and her people. As to what marriage entails…well, she has ten years to learn what will be expected of her. Robin finds that she does not mind this; at the very least, she has been given time.

When they are formally introduced her betrothed nods politely in her direction, casting her a brief, but endearing smile. Robin must admit that she is surprised—she would have expected a young man like this to scoff at the notion of having so young a fiancée. Would have expected rudeness, if she’s honest. Instead, there’s an air of nobility about him when he bows to her, and Robin is embarrassed.

 

She might only be a girl of ten, but this is the moment when she finds herself fascinated by Prince Yen’fay of Chon’sin, and it is a feeling that persists throughout her adolescent years.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

“You’re allowed to take a lover before you marry, little sister,” says Aversa one night as she sits behind Robin, combing the younger woman’s hair. “Only one lover, and only for one night, but you _are_ allowed.”

Robin, now twenty, can only laugh at the suggestion. “I don’t think I’ll be doing that, dearest sister.”

She does not _want_ to take a lover. The hungers of the flesh have been quieter in her than in her siblings when they were her age. What she wants from a partner, more than anything, is to be intrigued; and Robin cannot imagine that she even knows anybody who might prove more intriguing than the stoic man she is set to marry in only one month’s time.

 

It has been ten years since their first meeting, and still she is fascinated by her betrothed.

 

In his letters, he is kind but not overly warm; interesting, but not overly open. A gentleman, but from a distance. She wants to know how different it will be—if things will differ at all—once she is whisked away to Chon’sin. Wants to know if her betrothed—who by then would be her husband—might one day come to love her the way she’s read about in countless stories.

Oh, how Aversa would tease if she caught wind of Robin’s romanticism.

She would not hear the end of it; though Robin must admit that she would deserve such teasing, even if she can’t help herself. Embarrassing as it is to admit it, Robin has fallen in love with him. In love with _Yen’fay_. The name sounds strange in her natural accent, but in a way that she hopes he might find endearing.

 

She thinks that her sister takes the pensive heaviness of her gaze to mean that she is considering this business of a lover more seriously, because the dark lady lets out a bark of laughter as she pulls her comb through Robin’s hair. As soon as she has finished she sets her comb down and tucks into Robin’s side, bringing her chin to Robin’s shoulder so that their reflected faces are side by side.

“You might find that you enjoy yourself, little bird,” says Aversa, grinning. “And who knows? If you fall pregnant, you may even have a chance at marrying somebody who could _love_ you.” Her laugh, dark and rich and everything that Robin knows her own is not, sends a shiver up Robin’s spine.

“Sister, please!”

Robin knows, of course, that Aversa might very well be right, but there’s no need to _vocalize_ such crude and hopeless thoughts.

Aversa sighs and stands, though she stays close enough to run one clawed hand through Robin’s hair. If she is repentant for causing offence, or simply dislikes for Robin to be upset with her, Robin cannot tell. She allows the contact either way, in part because she has already forgiven Aversa, and in part because these are among the last moments of bonding that they will have before she is wed.

“Sit back down, ‘Versey, if you’d please,” she says, shyly, and her sister obliges, smiling fondly at the childish pet name. Robin leans back into the warmth Aversa offers, unsure if she should say more. She opts, instead, for silence.

“I did not mean to offend, my darling. I am merely warning you…marriages such as yours and mine are not meant to produce happy lives. You may find that bliss is ever-elusive once you are wed and sent away from home.”

Robin is ashamed; she knows that her sister’s own marriage has not resulted in much happiness. Still, everybody is different—and surely Yen’fay is more of a man than Gangrel; a better man …a better husband. Surely. “Such may not be the case for all in our position, sister. Look at Reflet. He is happy.”

“But Reflet is a _man_ , Robin dear. They will be made happy wherever they go; such is what this world dictates. As for the likes of you and I,” Aversa’s hand falls to Robin’s chin, pushing her face up slightly to meet her sister’s eyes, “The best that we can do is hope that our husbands do not try to harm us—or hope that they try to harm us badly enough that we are justified in what we do in our own defense.”

Those words, and the look that creeps over her sister’s face, will stick out in Robin’s memory for far, far longer than either of them would have thought.

 

They linger even as she boards the ship that will take her to Valm, where her husband-to-be awaits her arrival. As the figures of her father and sister grow ever-smaller, Robin swallows a lump of nervousness down, down. For the first time since meeting Yen’fay all those years ago, she is afraid.

 

***

 

She finds quickly that there is little to be afraid of where her husband is concerned. Yen’fay is kind and generous, if not particularly warm. There is a stoicism to him that her ten-year-old self hadn’t noticed—not that she can be faulted, having been not more than a child—and while it is not unpleasant it certainly aids in tamping down whatever romanticised ideals she might have held the man up to prior to their marriage.

 

Yen’fay is a gentleman, at any rate. and so Robin quickly settles into her new life.

 

They consummate their marriage following the ceremony, in accordance with the traditions of his people. Robin cannot say that it is not painful, but her husband is as gentle as he can be, and when it is over he pulls a clean sheet above them both and rubs circles across her back until she falls asleep.

 

In the morning, he is gone, but there is food in a covered tray by the futon, and a single flower—she has never seen one like it before.

Cherry blossoms, they’re called.

This carries on for days, weeks, months. She rarely sees him outside of meals and the nights they share together, and Robin is not sure if she should feel saddened by this. If she should feel used. She yearns to see him, she realizes, yearns to speak with him about the things he had written in his letters; the homeland he loves so much, and the gardens, and the people, and…

Regardless, she loves him, in some way. She doesn’t ever say it aloud. Not after the first year of their marriage, or the second, or during her pregnancy with Morgan. She can’t say it, not if he does not feel the same. Robin may be a romantic at heart, but she was not raised to be a fool, either.

 

She doesn’t tell him she loves him.

 

***

 

There is warmth on her shoulder, and Robin turns slowly to find her husband smiling down at her. “How are you feeling, Robin?”

She smiles. “Well, Yen’fay. What news from the summit?”

“The same as usual,” he says, falling silent as his eyes take in the sight of her stomach. He lowers himself, sword clinking a bit against the floor. His eyes never leave her stomach. “It won’t be long now.” Robin is surprised that he should stay so close to her, kneeling on the wooden floor without any signs of discomfort, but she is glad.

“Do you l—do you hope for another son, Yen’fay?” Robin feels the blush rise on her face. To think that she would almost slip, and _now_!

She is surprised when he places a hand over hers, over where their second child grows within her. “I hope only for the both of you to come out of childbirth unscathed and healthy, Robin.”

If Robin is taken aback by the words, she does her best not to show it. There is a tenderness in Yen’fay’s voice that she has seldom heard, and though they do not speak anymore—instead watching their son together—she feels that they do not need to. Yen’fay’s hand does not leave hers.

She chances a moment to look at him, and she wonders again if he loves her. With a start, Robin realizes that in some way, he must. In the seven years of their marriage thus far, he has been a good husband, but not in the way she had expected; not loudly, or with large gestures, but with the same quiet sense of gentility that he carries with him everywhere.

 

She loves him.

 

When she leans in to his ear to whisper the words, he does not shy away.

Instead, Yen’fay brings her hand up to his lips and kisses it, and it is then that Robin knows.


	8. Id ~ Habitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning old habits and new adjustments when faced with a new way of life…

It is only until they have consummated their marriage that he thinks to ask her if she misses her own country, though she has been a guest of his for the last three months.

“Do you miss the traditions of your homeland?”

She does not turn when she answers him, merely stares up into the dark as she speaks. “Aye, though less so now that I have had the chance to become steeped in your culture.”

“We will go back there one day, I promise you.”

“I know that your word is good, sir, but before that day comes we must first become accustomed to the roles that we must now play.

In the dark, King Reflet of Plegia reaches out a comforting hand to Queen Consort Say’ri, who tenses for a moment before relaxing into his touch. This is the first night they have spent together, and though they have consummated their marriage as per the old ways of Plegian tradition, there is a marked _newness_ to all of this. To being physically intimate. To being _any_ kind of intimate.

Neither of them is used to it yet.

Say’ri sighs—though not unkindly—and his heart twinges a little. Reflet knows that their marriage had been arranged, but he…he loves her. Or at least, he believes that he could feel that way very, very soon.

To be fair to her, Say’ri has said that she could love him as well. That, however, will take time, and effort on both their parts. After all—as she so wisely puts it—though she has lived in Plegia for some months now, she has done so as a guest, free to her own devices and relatively unaffected by him and his decisions.

Things are different now, from their living arrangements to the titles they now bear.

Still, Reflet knows to be patient, knows that he cannot ask her for anything more. Say’ri’s heart will come to its own conclusions about him whenever and however it will, and he can only do what he can to be good to her. He cannot _make_ her feel anything…

 

It is that thought that pushes him into sleep.

 

He is surprised to be awoken by the sound of rustling only a few hours later, but the reassuring press of Say’ri’s hand to his hair assures him of his safety. “Peace, husband.”

“It’s still early,” he says, sitting up.

She nods. “Aye, that it is. At home, I rose before the dawn to each morn, so that I might sharpen my skills before the heat of the day could truly begin. Since coming here, I have kept the same routine.” Having said that, she turns away from him.

“Ah, I see,” he says, and he does not question her routine, nor express a wish for her to change it to suit him. That would be wrong (and he doubts that Say’ri would even heed his words in that case). Instead, he says, “Would you like me to join you?”

“It is well that you stay abed, husband,” she says, the words stiff, but not unkind. “I have been a wanderer of these grounds for some months now, and shall see no difficulty in returning once my training is complete.”

“Very well,” he says, already leaning back against the pillows. If she does not wish for his company he would do well not to force it upon her. “I wish you well in your training, Say’ri.”

“…Thank you,” she says after a moment, voice faltering a bit at hearing her name fall so freely from his lips. He grimaces slightly, but it is too late to apologize. Perhaps thinking to spare him the embarrassment, she adds, “Get your rest, husband. Today will be your first as king, after all, and things will be much different than you are used to.”

At the no-nonsense tone of her voice he nestles back under his sheets, eyes straining against the dark for one last glimpse of her. She looks beautiful, even in the gloom, but Reflet can’t help the ache in his chest at the way she steps briskly away. Though she _likes_ him, perhaps, she would rather be without him. That much is obvious.

As the door closes, he places a hand against her side of the bed, where the sheets have already begun to cool; he wonders if this vague sense of abandonment is something he should get used to.

 

 

 

 “Now is time for you to wake, husband.”

Reflet stirs, rolling on to his side in time to catch the hint of a smile on Say’ri’s face as she hovers over him. “How was your training?” The smile remains for a second longer before slipping into a mostly blank expression.

“It was as I am used to,” Say’ri answers. “Now, you would do well to dress yourself quickly. I believe your sisters expressed a wish to breakfast with us before they depart.” She does not say anything more as she turns away from him, and it is only now that he can see that she has already changed out of her training gear and into something more appropriate for the morning meal.

He has seen her about the palace before, but the sight of Say’ri in Plegian robes is oddly pleasing. Reflet does not voice this, of course; she would tell him to save his breath on superfluous flirtation, and he is in no mood for a lecture. He not realize how much time he has spent in simply lying on his side watching her until she turns to him, one eyebrow arched upward in a delicate, questioning manner.

“Oh, I should be getting dressed, yes, o-of course!” If he is a tad flustered by his wife’s demeanour, he does his best not to show it. After all, this strictness is merely her way. He knows that. Stumbling from his bed with less grace than one would think strictly acceptable for a king, Reflet feels rather foolish.

He is embarrassed to be seen this way by his wife, whom he loves, who does not yet love him in return. Next to her, he feels rather poorly about his princely— _kingly—_ demeanour; finds himself lacking. Say’ri carries the air of one bred to lead; she is a princess, no, a _queen_ , as much as she is a warrior. He on the other hand…well…Reflet will never quite understand what reason his father might have had (outside of misogyny) to leave the Plegian throne to him instead of one of his much more capable sisters.

Casting those thoughts aside for the present, however, Reflet all but yanks the wardrobe’s door off its hinges in his mad rush to clothe himself. He can’t remember if there is anything that he is supposed to wear. A specific colour, a specific material…he can’t remember, but to make a misstep now…

“Husband, you need not look so harried. I have taken the liberty of laying your clothes out for you. They are on the chest.”

Reflet turns at his wife’s words, eyes scanning the room as he moves. True enough, his clothes are _indeed_ laid out upon the chest. He can’t remember them having been there before. “I—

“I asked one of your servants what a king such as yourself would customarily wear the day following of his wedding, and was assisted in a most prompt manner.”

“But… _you_ laid out my clothes for me?” he asks, knowing that that can be the only answer. While the palace is fully staffed, Reflet and his siblings had never been allowed body servants—their father had decided early on that they would learn to do things for themselves, though his reasoning had never been made clear.

To think that somebody had not only chosen his clothes, but had laid them out for him is…strange, he thinks. His hands run over the smooth white cotton trousers and the loose, flowing black tunic. “Thank you.”

Say’ri merely dips her head in response. “Aye.” Reflet goes to thank her again, but she cuts him off with her next words. “I must admit that the idea of not having…attendants…was at first one which confused me a great deal; after all, my entire life has been spent in the presence of many who would serve me.”

“Doesn’t a regimented upbringing such as yours,” he pauses as he pulls the tunic on over his head, “usually involve stricter practices?”

“While ‘tis true that I have had a warrior’s upbringing and have lived a life of some scarcity compared to the grandeur I have experienced here, there were _some_ luxuries upon which my brother insisted. Handmaidens to assist me in dressing for formal events were one of these. But I digress, as this matters little. Dress quickly, please, husband.”

He does as she asks, trying hard not to get caught watching as she runs a comb through her sleek hair. If their eyes meet in the mirror she does not mention it, though he thinks that he can spot an amused little smile on her lips. He’s glad for that. It means that at the very least, he has not upset her with his question.

 

Reflet continues to dress, turning away from Say’ri lest he say something that she will not receive as well as he had intended.

 

To his surprise, Say’ri waits for him to finish. “Be still a moment, husband,” she says, and her small, fine hands run the length of his shoulders, pressing lightly against his chest; smoothing down the fabric in a way that pleases her better, it seems. After a moment, she nods. “That is well. Shall we?”

There is nothing that comes to mind to say, and so instead he offers Say’ri his arm—not only because he wants to, but because he knows that it would be deemed strange for them to walk separately. She loops her arm through his after only a moment’s hesitation. Reflet cannot help but notice her sudden shyness.

“Is something the matter, Say’ri?”

“No… _Reflet_ ,” she says, as if testing the sound of his name against her tongue. “There is nothing amiss.”

“Then why do you look so very saddened? Have I done something to upset you?”

“I should think not, husband,” she says, and there is a slight smile behind her words. “After all, you have been asleep for most of this morning thus far…”

There is something in the way her eyes turn downwards at the word _far_ , something that makes him feel like there’s a meaning for the slow sadness that isn’t due to him; not directly, at least. He does not like to see her sad. “You miss home, don’t you?” He’d been venturing a guess, but the way her head lifts and falls tells him that he is right.

“Things are…very different here, I’ll admit,” she says, and the tight line of her smile hurts more than the tightened hold of her hand around his arm. “But I will adjust in time, husband. Now smile, sir; your sisters would surely not miss an opportunity to tease you should you walk into the dining hall with so dour an expression.”

“Say’ri…” he stops himself, only nodding at her when she turns to him.

It is not his place, he realizes as they walk through familiar halls together, to tell her how to make the adjustments she needs to make. It is not his place to tell her which way is best. And besides, thinks, watching his new wife interact politely with the palace staff, Say’ri will be just fine…

 

All it will take is a bit of an adjustment.


	9. Id ~ Intimidation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning a new queen's pre-consummation jitters and her wish not to be ruled by petty fears...

It’s the uncertainty that bothers her more than anything else. She isn’t _sure_ , because she’s _intimidated_ , but also mostly she’s just nervous.

 

No matter what he’s doing, whether it’s sitting or standing or guiding her in a traditional Feroxi wedding dance, Robin’s new husband is positively _gigantic_. She knows that being a Khan has more to do with substance of character than structure of body, but Khan Basilio suits the role: he is a goliath of a man. Ever since their first meeting, she has thought of him as a warrior king. Robin is certain that she has only heard of men of his ilk in stories; giant war-gods who walked the earth, towering over the common soldiers as if they were little more than toys.

 

It would intimidate anybody, the way that Basilio stands above the rest of the world, a titan among his fellow men.

 

Despite this inescapable truth, Robin does not find that she can be _afraid_ of him at all. She’s rather infatuated with him if she’s honest. He had towered over her during their first meeting one year ago, towered over her during their wedding ceremony, and now, as they move in time to a lively tune, he towers over her still, but it is not a problem. After all, she’s always been _aware_ of her husband’s physical appearance, and she isn’t demoralized by her comparative smallness.

And anyway, it isn’t that she is short and slight beside him that has her feeling so nervous.

No, she should have known that her sister, lascivious-minded as Aversa can so often be, would have chosen _now_ of all nights to unleash her entire repertoire of lewd jokes upon her. As    a result, Robin must admit to a very real fear of the impending consummation of her marriage. She does not doubt that Basilio is well-aware of the mechanics and…finer details…of what their night will entail, but for all that she has read, all that her sister has told, Robin is entirely unaware of what to _expect_.

 

Not to mention that a single look at her husband, at the way that he completely blocks out the sight of anything but him as he spins her around, reminds her that compared to Basilio she is _incredibly_ tiny.

 

The music ends, and it is not until one of her husband’s (impossibly large) hands squeezes her hip for a brief second that Robin realizes that she’d been completely inattentive for most of the dance. “Are you okay, my lady?” he asks, easing his hold on her until it feels as if he is not touching her at all.

“I am fine, my lord,” she replies, though she knows from the way his eyes narrow that he has not bought her little white lie.

She forgets sometimes, that Basilio is not some gullible prince, nor some dew-eyed new king still fresh from his coronation. Her husband has experience with women, with people in general, and he is a perceptive man despite his occasional bouts of buffoonery. “My worries are silly, and quickly resolved,” she says after a moment.

He seems to accept that answer with more grace. “Anything I can do to help you?”

“No, no,” Robin says, hoping that he will simply ignore the dusting of pink across her cheeks. “I would like to take respite from the dance, however, my lord,” she says, “I have yet to speak to my brother, and I have missed him greatly.”

 She does not look askance at Basilio, because she is not asking for his permission so much as expressing a desire.

To her pleasure, Basilio does not insist that she stay by his side. “But of course, Robin, you must want to spend time with him,” he says instead, dipping his head towards her. “If you want to find me, I’ll be wherever the mead is.”

His smile is wide and half-wild, and yet as he leans down to kiss her forehead he is surprisingly gentle. Almost affectionate, though she does not delude herself into thinking that her husband could care for her with any special feeling; they have only been a year in each other’s acquaintance, most of which was spent in their own home countries.

“O-okay, Basilio,” she says, noting that his smile widens at the sound of his own name coming from her lips. She manages to smile back, fighting the blush on her cheeks as her giant of a husband walks away, towards the mead; just as he’d said.

As soon as he has gone, Robin takes the opportunity to step away from the crowd of dancers, sticking closer to the walls of the grand hall as she scans the celebrants in search of her brother. Truthfully, she merely wishes to take the time to catch up with him in person; letters are nice, and a good way of keeping in touch, but Robin misses the days before all the marriages and the moving away; before her sister became queen of their home, before her brother became an Ylissean prince.

Robin is so concentrated in her search that she does not notice where she is walking until she has bumped into a tall, solid figure. Hastily, she searches for an apology, the words growing more frantic when she looks up to see violet eyes and golden hair, and a smile that is the feminine equivalent of her husband’s. “K-Khan Flavia! I am so very sorry to—

“Hey, hey, no worries! I’d been meaning to come find you anyway. Congratulations are in order,” says the woman, “Though I do think I should be saving those for the big oaf over there. After all, you got stuck with him out of the deal, but he gained _you_ , and so really, I think I should be offering you consolations; poor girl.” The smile on the khan’s face indicates the nature of her jest, but Robin is still a little too startled—a little too off her usual game, really—to do little more than stifle a surprised giggle.

“I-I am sure that Khan Basilio is a fine man, and will make a fine husband,” she says, blushing as the East-Khan laughs her jovial laughter. Thoughts of finding her brother are quickly abandoned; it would do well for Robin to form a strong bond with Flavia.

The taller woman bends down a little, armour glistening under the torchlight, “I’m trusting you to keep Basilio in check, my lady.” The propriety of the address is surprising until Khan Flavia slings an arm across her shoulders and points to Basilio, who is laughing with such raucous cheer that the sound carries over to where they stand. Robin doesn’t know why, but she feels the corners of her mouth turn up into a smile. “That bald oaf has experienced many a wilding in his youth, and he can get rowdy ‘n loud and altogether too bawdy…but you’re right, he’s a fine man. Fit to be my counterpart, at least. And I’m sure he won’t disappoint you as a husband.”

Robin laughs, “He’s told me to remember any positive words from you, Khan Flavia. Says that they are rarer than diamonds.”

Khan Flavia smiles, “Aye, and he would be right. But what’s this,” she asks, seeming to notice, for the first time, just how quiet Robin is. “I understand that yours was a political arrangement, but I had thought that you were at least happy enough with your husband being that buffoon of a man. Is something wrong?”

Robin knows that she shouldn’t be sharing her nervousness with anyone, least of all with the East-Khan, but there’s something about Flavia’s warmth and candidness that gets her to open up. “I must admit that I have some reservations. Not about my husband, no, but…”

Apparently, the look on her face says it all, else Flavia is just particularly perceptive. The woman offers her a clap on the shoulder, not necessarily pitying but not without some trace of sympathy. “Ah. Consummation fears, is it?”

Robin ducks her head, embarrassed; she shouldn’t have said anything. She knows that hers is a country that still upholds archaic traditions in some senses; particularly that a woman who is wed for the first time is expected to have retained her virtue. She knows that the people of Ferox have long since had done with this expectation, but Robin cannot help how she was raised. As such, she is scared not only for the actual experience, but for the embarrassment that will surely follow…scared, as well, because although she is an adult it just doesn’t seem _logical_ —a man of her husband’s size and a woman of hers.

 

It’s intimidating, to say the least.

 

All this fear is plain to see on her face, and Robin struggles to come up with an explanation. “You are aware, I am sure, of the…way that my father ran our country. My sister has done her best to overturn some of the old laws, but tradition is not so easily forgotten. I have _no_ idea what to do or expect, Khan Flavia, and I—

“It certainly can’t help that the big lug that you just married was built big enough to intimidate raging bears, yes?”

“Y-yes,” she says, cheeks burning from more than just the heat of the torches. This is all so embarrassing that she cannot stand it, but it would be rude to abandon Khan Flavia’s side while they remain in conversation. “I…”

Khan Flavia, for her part, is extremely gracious. “You needn’t fear, lass, the oaf knows how to treat women.” Realizing that her words carry a certain connotation the khan’s eyes flash, and her smile is sheepish when she adds, “Not that he has bedded as many as the stories would suggest.”

Robin smiles and shakes her head. She has no delusions about her husband’s experiences—she had always known, being betrothed to one as worldly as he, that such would be the case—but Robin dips her head in acknowledgement of Khan Flavia’s graciousness. “I understand, Khan Flavia.”

The khan catches at the slightest of tremors in Robin’s voice, and she claps a hand on the smaller woman’s shoulder in a more comforting manner than before. “If you are so concerned, Robin, I would suggest speaking with him. He may be an oaf, but he will listen.”

 

 

***

 

 

Later, as her amazingly-still-sober husband takes her to bed, Robin shivers, and she is surprised when his large hand cups her cheek. “Are you cold, my lady?”

“I…” She ducks her head a moment, and when she looks back up she can see understanding in his eyes.

“Are you frightened?”

Robin isn’t scared of what is about to happen so much as… “Intimidated, perhaps.”

To her surprise, Basilio smiles gently. “We don’t _have_ t—

“No, it’s not that!” she says, surprising herself with her own earnestness. She realizes that through the vague feelings of intimidation, she _wants_ this. “It’s just that I…you know…about my country’s laws.” He nods. “I am just…worried.”

Basilio smiles at her again, surprising her with a softness she would not have thought possible on a man of her husband’s make. “Look at me, Robin.” She does. “I will do my best to show you that your fears are unfounded. But only if you’re sure you want this tonight. Are you sure?”

 

She looks up at him, her titan of a husband, and considers her options.

 

Robin feels small underneath him—though he has yet to place his weight on her—but there is a nice feeling there too, a warmth. And he is sincere; she can tell from his eyes; Basilio has given her an out, and she is almost certain that she could take it and not be thought of poorly by her husband. Still. That is not what she wants, to be ruled by her intimidation.

 

And she does want this, wants to experience this with him, right now.

 

 

 

She takes a deep breath.

 

 

 

“I’m sure.”

 

 

 

 

 

                                                 


	10. Id ~ Judgement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning the need to prove oneself in the most ridiculous of fashions...

He feels so sick that he could lose his stomach upon the floor and not think ill of himself for it, but there is too much at stake for Reflet to lose heart (or stomach) now. Choking down vomit and the urge to quit, he reaches for the tankard of ale before him and knocks it back, stifling his throat’s wish to gag. The crowd that has amassed around him lets up a raucous cheer, and it is with no small amount of self-satisfaction that he wipes the froth from his lips.

“Well done, Prince Reflet,” says a firm voice. Reflet looks up into the speaker’s eyes and finds that Khan Flavia’s smile makes her irises seem even brighter than their usual striking violet. “And so, you have passed my second challenge; you’ve shown me that you can drink as much as any Feroxi.”

 “That’sh I have,” he slurs, holding up a hand for a moment’s silence. He whispers a discreet sobering spell to himself before pausing, to give the appearance of some difficulty, before smiling up at the East-Khan. “And what would you have me do nexsht, Khan Flavia?” It is more difficult to feign drunkenness than he had originally thought, but he must.

“We have tested your brain, and tested your stomach, and found that in both, you are adequate,” she says, a smile playing at her lips. “But of course, as so astute a student of international affairs, I am sure you know what matters most for we of Feroxi blood.”

“Aye, I do,” he says, rising, careful to make it appear as if he is unsteady without the support of a bench underneath his bottom. “And what sh’ort of suitor to a veritable queen of Ferox’sh would I be if I did not prove my sh’trength?” She smirks at him, and Reflet resists the sudden urge to swallow down his awe at how lovely she is, how statuesque as she peers down her fine nose at his slight frame. Loveliness aside, he _must_ secure his engagement to Khan Flavia.

His father will accept no less.

“Indeed. Shall we, then?”

A different kind of heat surrounds him than that of his homeland, but the scent of ale and sweat mingling together is one that he knows well, and it makes him sleepy. Even with the sobering spell at work, he would be perfectly fine to sleep a while.

He can’t.

“Where?”

The khan laughs her full-bodied laugh. “A short jaunt in the Feroxi chill should sober you right up, your highness. And perhaps it might be the best way to test your strength, as well.” She tilts her head towards the side of the hall, where a rack of weapons sits as part of the décor. “There are more ways to measure a man’s strength than just the one.”

“S’a good idea, aye,” he says, shivering even as he follows Khan Flavia through the torchlit hallways. Winter in Regna Ferox is the worst of times, but the East-Khan had only agreed to consider his proposal after ensuring that he would pursue courtship of her during the harshest of her mother country’s seasons, and so here he is.

They near a set of large wooden doors after only a few minutes of walking. “Now then, are you ready?”

“R-ready?” he asks, the alarm in his voice tempered only when he remembers that one would not be so easily alarmed when intoxicated. “Aye! Let me to the cool Feroxi air!”

“Aren’t you a tad overdressed, your highness?”

“A-am I?”

“Feroxi men often frequent the outdoors without much covering, to prove their strength and resilience. Consider this your final test, if you will.” If she had been amused before, Khan Flavia is now only _just_ stopped short of laughing at him, but Reflet doesn’t care. Muttering a short spell to help bolster his convictions, he shrugs out of the thick robe and tunic that his sisters had insisted upon him wearing. Thankfully that seems to be enough nudity, and Khan Flavia shakes her head at him as his hands idle around the waist of his trousers.

Though he is yet inside, his entire body reacts most violently to the mere whispers of cold that seep in past the doors. It’s quite possibly the one feeling he hates most in the world, the stabbing frigidity of the air, but he cannot back down. Not now. Reflet does his best to ignore the gooseflesh that has begun to prick up all over his body. It is too late now to cast a heating spell, and besides, the use of magic would be obvious there; no matter how comfortable a man might be with the cold, certain physical reactions are _inescapable_ , and a heating spell would certainly only be…cause for suspicion.

Reflet also tries his best to ignore the appraising looks that the East-Khan is giving him as her eyes drag all over his body. He knows that in comparison to most Feroxi men he is rather small, and where the shorter of Khan Flavia’s countrymen often boast of stocky, strong physiques, Reflet’s many years in his father’s library have leant themselves to a slim, wiry frame. He wonders, in his head, if Khan Flavia thinks him a poor match based on his appearance alone; but she had said herself that she would agree to the joining of their houses so long as he passed all her challenges.

He’s _so_ close; so very close to playing his role in expanding their family into all three major countries of the continent, just as his father always dreamed.

 

All he needs to do now is brave the cold.

 

“I’m ready,” he says, and Khan Flavia shoots him a quick grin before pushing the great doors open herself and stepping boldly out into the freezing winds. He is jealous of how easy she makes braving the harsh weather seem, and follows her out without another word.

Immediately, he regrets his decision.

It is entirely too cold for anybody to be outside, shirtless or otherwise, and he is sure that he will very soon contract a sickness if he does not get back inside. If the violent quivering of his body is any indication, he will be lucky to escape this ordeal with all his limbs and extremities intact (not to say anything about whether he’ll be able to _feel_ them). Still, he does his best to screw an easy smile on his face, hoping that Khan Flavia will not think him unable to withstand the freezing temperature. She looks at him strangely, asking if he is alright, and he nods though it is painful to do so, shaking his head once she has turned away. If he can but impress her with his fortitude, he will have earned himself a betrothed. If he can but last at least a few minutes in this blasted climate, he will have secured his family’s future.

 

Have his hands always felt so stiff?

 

Have his eyes always drooped so heavily?

 

Reflet feels strange—he isn’t even sure if he’s shivering anymore—but still, he refuses to give up even as his knees sink onto the snow-covered stone. Khan Flavia’s hearing must be warrior-keen; she turns almost as soon as he has sunk. In her eyes is a warm concern, and Reflet smiles—perhaps dopily—up at her. He’s too cold, too tired to do much of anything else. Her own mouth forms a slight frown, and then she’s practically yelling, “Your lips are turning blue, Prince Reflet!” He’s about to try for a witticism of some kind, but there’s no time to speak as the golden-haired khan picks Reflet up into her arms. Her armour is so cold against his bare skin that it stings, but he’s too tired to speak even as she rushes them back inside, piling his tunic and robe on top of him before she hurries through the castle.

The jostling is most unpleasant, but Reflet is too concerned with the chattering of his teeth and the panic in his hostess’ eyes to really make a complaint. Instead, he tries for her attention. “K-khan Flavia?”

She doesn’t respond, only shoots him a worried look as she rushes up a flight of stairs that would have left him winded had he been climbing them with his own two feet. She’s muttering under her breath, something about “stubborn princes” and “petty pridefulness” and Reflet can’t make sense of anything. He’s just so _tired_. He just really wants to sleep. “Don’t fall asleep!”

“W-why not?” he asks, frowning up at her as she lays him down on something soft and starts to pile heavy fabrics—furs and linens and quilts of all different makes—atop him. For a moment, he wonders if she hadn’t heard him, as she opens the door to yell down the hallway for something—he’s not sure what—but when she returns she’s looking at him with the same concern in her eyes and he knows she’d heard him.

“You’re not going to wake up if you sleep now,” she says, tucking him in so his body is secure in the little cocoon she has made. Reflet knows that her alarm is very real and wonders at what she’s doing, but before he can say anything, the sound of armour clanging to the ground stops him. He’s about to ask another question, until he sees Khan Flavia hovering by the edge of the bed—because she’d put him in a bed, he realizes—wearing nothing but her smallclothes and a look of sincere concern. “Prince Reflet, you’ve gone into shock from the cold, and the best way to help you would be to share body heat. Is that acceptable, your highness?”

He nods—weakly, perhaps, but he’s in no condition to front as anything other than cold and tired and _weak_ —and the golden-haired khan climbs underneath the thick pile of furs and blankets she’d made for him, wrapping strong arms around him in a tender fashion that, in all honesty, feels…nice. If surprising. With a start, he realizes that the khan’s breathing is slowing, matching his, and he wonders why he feels so comfortable. He’d almost _died_. That much, at least, has sunken in. “I apologize for the t-trouble I’ve caused,” he says, stuttering when his head bumps her chin.

She laughs, the sound lighter than he’d expected. After a beat, she says, “I wasn’t expecting you to do it, you know.”

“It was my final challenge,” he replies. “My last chance to prove myself worthy of your hand.”

Khan Flavia pulls away, just enough that when he tilts his head up he can see the concern in her eyes. “You would risk your own life just to secure an engagement with me?”

He doesn’t answer that right away, hoping that she won’t wonder at his reasoning. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes, you foolish man, it is,” she says, but she doesn’t sound angry, and he’s glad for it. He waits, wondering if she will say anything more. “I don’t know what I should think of you now. At first, I may have judged you too much for what I believed to be universally true of men of your ilk…but now…now I feel like I need to think things over again. You aren’t what I thought you were.”

 

He’s too tired to reply to that.

 

Before he knows it, the only light to be seen comes from the roaring fire, and he has been asleep, tucked into the khan’s side, for hours.

 

 

 

In the morning, Reflet finds a note written in Khan Flavia’s simple, strong-lined hand.

 

_A man who would so foolishly risk his own life for the good of his people, that is what you are._

_And that is that kind of man I believe should stand by my side._

_As long as you promise_ never _to repeat your actions of yesterday, consider us betrothed, Reflet._

 


	11. Id ~ Knavery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concerning a woman who wonders about her husband's behaviour...

There is a diplomacy summit to be held in Ylisstol, but it would be _rude_ of them not to visit with the Khans of Ferox first. That is the rationale that her husband presents to her, in any case, and though Robin is still wary of him—the whispers of their courtiers are upsetting, if not entirely believable—she cannot say argue that his logic is flawed. Her husband, for all that he seems a foppish git, is rather cleverer than she had originally thought; a fact which, though it pleases her, also gives her pause.

She is wary of the airs that he puts on as soon as they set foot in Port Ferox.

He takes her arm and parades her down the street, waving gaily at men and women and children alike before allowing her into the waiting carriage first. She smiles and nods her head in thanks, shrewd eyes watching as his smile brightens upon meeting the gaze of a particularly beautiful Feroxi noble. Robin says nothing, only marks it down in her mind. It happens again a few times, Robin catching an exchange between her husband and a noblewoman, and each time she thinks that he can see her watching. She thinks that he might be apologetic. She never watches him long enough to be sure.

 

After all, looks may mean one thing just as much as they may mean another, and jumping to conclusions services no one.

 

During their dinner with Khan Flavia—a most remarkable woman, and one held highly in Robin’s esteem—she notices how her husband’s eyes never once wander too far away from her. He is almost _too_ attentive. Still, she cannot say that she would rather the alternative, and so she says nothing, only smiles slightly whenever their gazes lock. After all, they are married, and they share their bed, and she must confess to feeling some attachment to her lord. Especially as of late, though he has yet to suspect why that might be.

She has no proof of a betrayal of any kind on his part, and while she may not be comfortable with his past, there is little that she can do now to change the man that he once was. The man he might still be. Robin is ashamed of that last thought; that is the kind of thinking best left to suspicious-minded women, women who fear the answers to their inquiries. She knows that the only way she will ever get any real kind of answer will be if she asks her questions for herself.

 

Not _now_ , perhaps, but should an appropriate opportunity arise.

 

Virion—and it is _strange_ that she should feel so comfortable using his name already—is surprisingly well-behaved on the journey to Ylisstol, able to act the role of gentleman to his travel-weary wife. Robin must admit that she is not of a notably sturdy fortitude; she was not built for travel, much like her mother—at least, that is what her father had always said. She appreciates the efforts of her husband, and tells him so, and often his replies (sincerer than she thinks they ought to be if he were the man everybody says) surprise her.

“Is there anything I can get for you, my darling Robin?” The purr of his voice as it curls around the endearment is familiar to her, and yet it still manages to pull a small smile from her lips.

“I am fine, my lord husband,” she says, chuckling when he flushes at the title that she wields as a pet name for him. “I wish only to sleep.”

“Of course, dearest lady. I shall busy myself in procuring a meal for you before you retire.”

She mumbles her assent with an air of fondness for her husband, allowing herself to smile more naturally when his hand strokes her cheek, and then he is gone and Robin listens for his footfalls. The women of the Rosannean court may say what they wish, but at the very least Virion has proven himself an able husband, if nothing else. Hearing his laughter—silvery and tinged with the accent of his homeland—she grins. Her husband is notoriously loud when he’s enjoying himself.

Something that their consistent nights together have only proven time and time again.

The thought amuses her so greatly that she is still grinning when he returns with plates of food for them both. He seems pleased by her high spirits, and they share a good meal together before he returns to the kitchen with their emptied plates. Robin is admittedly surprised at this; while she knows him to be no stranger to doing things for himself, he has been especially busy of late. She has barely lifted a finger.

When Virion returns, he presses a kiss to her lips, and she is further surprised not to find the taste of anything other than the wine they had both consumed. “You did not sample the local ale?”

“I have passed through this particular town before, my love, and though the local brew is adequate, I am in no rush to sample it more than the once.”

She does not know if there is any way to continue their conversation from that, and so instead she simply smiles, as she does whenever she is at a loss for words. Virion, perhaps sensing this, blows out the candle on the bedside table. Letting out a yawn, Robin is only just made aware of how tired she is by how eagerly she burrows under the inn’s thin blankets. Chuckling to himself, Virion huddles in close to her as she falls asleep, and as she slowly drifts out of consciousness she wonders why she had ever suspected her husband of acting in a way that would dishonour their wedding vows.

 

Upon entering Ylisstol, she is swiftly reminded.

 

In some ways, the castle town is even worse than the port of Ferox, in that women practically _throw_ themselves at Robin’s husband the second that his feet hit the dirt. As they walk the path leading up to the grand stairs of Castle Ylisstol, they are swarmed by well-dressed with elaborate hairstyles and fine clothing and jewels of all shapes and colours adorning them from head to toe. In her travelling clothes Robin feels rather dowdy and plain, though honestly that is not what bothers her the most about the situation at hand. She is mostly disgruntled by the eagerness of her fellow ladies, but a part of her remains curious as to what her husband’s reaction will be.

“Ladies, my good ladies, if you would please allow me to attend to my wife, we both would have the highest gratitude towards your lovely selves. You see, the duchess is weary from the long journey we have undertaken, and we must speak with Her Benevolence before any respite may be had.”

While Robin does not necessarily appreciate that her husband has made her sound like something of an invalid, she is pleased that he has executed himself so respectfully, and so she waves off her irritation. Upon seeing the way that the cluster of women alternates between swooning, cooing, and sighing in her husband’s wake, however, she must admit to being…rather taken aback. This is both unexpected and disconcerting, and as she watches her husband bow to each lady, begging their patience and their indulgence, she wonders how many of these women have fallen pray to her husband’s charms in the past.

 

A nagging voice in her head—an amalgam of the voices of the pesky Rosannean noblewomen—wonders if his poor behaviour truly _is_ part of the past.

 

Though she tries not to allow herself to feel badly, she cannot hide the frown that takes up residence across her lips, and her husband’s own lips purse in imitation, though his eyes betray only an honest confusion. She resists the desire to scoff openly. It would be one thing for him to be aware of her feelings, but another entirely for him to be so honestly _confused_. She wonders at that, at how a man so used to the utmost extravagances could seem, in this moment, so simple and straight-forward of mind.

She is displeased and surlier than she should rightly be, and he is at a loss.

How callous of heart must her husband be, she wonders, to be confused at why she no longer smiles as she had done during their carriage ride?

 

***

 

It is later in the night that he brings up her earlier surliness, and to say that she is surprised is an understatement. She had honestly thought he would not notice. He hadn’t seemed to, not even after they’d met with Exalt Emmeryn, who’d asked after Robin’s health the way that any good sister-in-law would do. Of course, Virion also doesn’t know what Emmeryn does, but still…

“Have I done something to upset you, darling?’

She sighs. It’s best that they have this out now. “Of that, I am unsure. Have you done anything that you know would have upset me?” She knows that he can hear it in her tone, can hear the accusation, but to her surprise he does not call her on it.

He mulls the matter over, and she is angry with herself, because she should have asked him directly instead of letting herself get swept up in the gossip of their courtiers. “Well perhaps I was not attentive to your needs, my love, in which case I can but apologize, and promise to do better on the morrow, and every day after.”

She looks at him, staring hard, and wonders how she might ask what she has been thinking to ask. It would be best, she thinks, just to be honest. “Do you know what I feel every day, being married to you?”

He looks as if he is about to make a jest before he thinks better of it and says instead, “Is there something you need to tell me?”

“You have been a good husband, and I am happy with you, but there are times when your past gives me pause. I cannot be sure that you are not the same man you were before you and I were wed, and it frightens me to think that you might be disrespecting our vows while being so kind to me when I can see you.”

He is silent, and then suddenly he is speaking, and his flowery speech is gone, replaced with the bluntness of sincerity. Virion looks appropriately ashamed of who he had once been, but when he tells her that he has been faithful ever since their marriage began, she believes him. He goes on to explain, but not to defend, his past of knavery, of debauchery, and he implores her not to leave until he has finished, until she understands how far he has come.

 

She listens.

 

As she listens, she watches him, and she thinks that perhaps he might be telling her all of this because he feels what she does. They could be happy with each other; their marriage could mean more than what arrangements like theirs tend to mean. They could have it all, in a sense. If she could place some measure of trust in them, they could have everything.

 

“Do you believe me, that my days of knavery are behind me?”

 

Robin considers her husband’s eyes, and finds no lies there. He is not a practiced liar, no matter what his past might suggest, and she can see that as plain as day. Now it is her turn to be honest.

 

“I believe you, and am glad. I wouldn’t want a dishonourable man for my child’s father.”

His reaction is instant, a smile broader than any she has seen on his face; a laugh more boisterous, more joyous than any she has heard from him. “How magnificent!”


End file.
